


They Glow (Bright) Under the Moon's Light

by ZandraGorin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Anal Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Herbology Professor Neville Longbottom, M/M, Pining, Potions, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Professor Lavender Brown, Romance, Sentient Plants, TasteofSmut 2020, Touch, sight, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZandraGorin/pseuds/ZandraGorin
Summary: It took some time but now Harry's finally realized that Potions isn't as bad as it once seemed. Of course, this realization has nothing to do with a particularly gifted (and good-looking, fit, gorgeous) Potions Professor. None whatsoever.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 311
Collections: Taste of Smut Fest





	They Glow (Bright) Under the Moon's Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladderofyears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/gifts).



> A huge thanks to my beta [WeasleyWench](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeasleyWench/pseuds/WeasleyWench) who made this jumbled mess readable and (hopefully) fest-worthy. Thank you for your hard work and for going through the whole thing as many times as needed despite your busy schedule. I've told you before but I'll tell you again: you are a gem!
> 
> To the sprinters and cheerleaders and all the lovely people over at Discord, thank you for the encouragement and kind words. I probably wouldn't have gotten the courage to participate in a fest without you guys.
> 
> And to Emma, you always give us brilliant prompts. You are a gift to the fandom. So here's a gift for you. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

“No. I thought we’d gone over this? No touching without the proper equipment.”

Harry flinches, hand outstretched, and he knows what it looks like but, no, he wasn’t just about to shove his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. He tries to look contrite, but for all his trouble, Draco still throws him a scathing look. The light-colored stone soars off, glittering under the bright light of the chamber and lands on another silver receptacle at the edge of Draco’s worktop with a _clang_. It’s a compelling sight, and Harry thinks it’s not really his fault if he forgets himself and is tempted to touch it. Again.

Harry’s always tempted to touch loads of things when he’s in this room—can feel the way his fingers itch and his palms tingle with the desire to reach out and touch and feel.

Still, he knows the look that Draco’s sent him is well-deserved, and Harry tucks his hands into his pockets, which will probably protect him from getting either poisoned or burned. Or hexed. Or all of the above. 

And, really, he’s quite fond of his hands, which he still needs for the stack of essays he’s yet to grade. He’d never been thrilled at the prospect of writing essays when he was still a student, and that hadn’t changed when he joined the Auror Corps. Now, his almost two years of teaching has made him realize that if there’s anything he hates more than writing essays, it’s having to grade them.

Need for his hands aside, he’s also quite content to stay put. So far he’s been clever (lucky and alert) enough not to get thrown out, and he has no active desire to break that streak. Harry thinks it’s best not to test Draco’s patience too much with his tendency to explore and touch and examine.

“I wasn’t going to touch the stone,” Harry murmurs. He scowls at the floor and shifts into a more comfortable position on his designated stool. It’s still soft from the Cushioning Charm that Draco placed on it months ago but it’s still a pain in the arse when Harry sits on it for hours on end, waiting for Draco to finish his brewing. He’s only been sitting for a few minutes today, but his knee is already bouncing and he’s itching to stand and move around and examine the odd if not pretty new things in Draco’s inventory.

He already spies some new sprigs lined up in their clear glass containers, sitting on the second shelf, and there’s some pink and honey-tinted liquid corked in an expensive-looking vial on the top shelf that Harry’s sure wasn’t there the other day. He’s curious enough to want to inspect it more closely, except Draco’s still preparing his ingredients, and Draco doesn’t appreciate Harry poking about when he’s trying to concentrate. Harry learned that the hard way and he thinks neither of them wants a repeat of that unfortunate night.

“I wasn’t going to touch it,” Harry repeats, louder so that he might capture Draco’s attention, which has already shifted from Harry’s grabby hands to the moonstone he’s just Levitated onto his shiny scales.

Draco looks away from the scale, just for a second, and Harry watches as Draco’s face breaks into an amused, almost imperceptible smile. “I’m certain I’ve heard that one before.”

It was a bit puzzling at first, this budding interest in Potions, since Harry never had much interest in it when he was a student. When Harry tries to rationalize it, he thinks the disinterest was more to do with his association of the subject to a professor he strongly disliked and less to do with the actual subject itself. He’s discovering that brewing isn’t all that bad. If anything, it’s most intriguing.

He especially likes it when it’s Draco who’s doing the brewing. Not that he’s watched anyone else brew potions recently it’s just—there’s something about the steady way Draco handles the ingredients, the fluid motion of his wrist when he stirs, the intense look on his face, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed, as he dices with impressive precision, the elegant twist of fingers when he brings in some vapors for a whiff…

Whatever Harry’s past qualms about Potions and brewing and questionable ingredients and annoying Slytherins (or one Slytherin, in particular), he most definitely finds them fascinating now.

“Pass me the powdered ones on your left,” Draco instructs as he slips his work goggles and gloves in place. “Don’t spill anything, and no touching.”

Bolstered by having something to do, Harry traces a path from the shelf to Draco’s worktop with a long wave of his wand and sends a small, silver mustard pot to Draco’s worktop. He’s always wanted to examine this container, ever since he’s seen what the inside looks like, but Draco always keeps it at arm’s length from him. Draco assures him that it is antique, and that the inside is lined with sapphire, and Draco’s most certain that Harry will drop it with his caveman hands, and when this happens, Draco will most certainly have to behead him. Harry doesn’t know why Draco seems to trust him more with his wand than with his hands, but this, like other things involving Draco and Potions, is something that Harry’s learned to accept, if not with a grain of salt.

“Lights, please,” Draco requests.

With a sweep of his wand, Harry directs the flow of light to Draco’s circle of mayhem. Draco’s shoulder-length hair is tied at his nape, and from where Harry’s sitting it’s gleaming—it’s as bright as the sun and Harry knows looking too long and too closely will just hurt his eyes, burn the image on the back of his lids, but he still does it anyway.

“Bit to the right, Harry.”

When that’s done, he lets himself stare a bit and tries not to grin at the oddly charming sight of Draco Malfoy in bright-turquoise-framed plastic goggles and neon-green latex gloves. The front portion of his hair is clipped back, but there are still a few short strands that have managed to slip out and Harry’s hands are itching to reach out and clip them back in place.

Harry is thankful that his bitten-down nails are not long enough to sting where they are currently digging into his arms. “Will you shred the roots tonight?”

“No, not tonight,” Draco answers while he inspects the moonstone for any impurities.

Harry finds himself only slightly disappointed. _It doesn’t matter,_ Harry thinks as Draco orders him to send the required mortar and pestle his way.

“Moonstone first. Then the roots,” Draco continues.

It’s warm in the room, though not enough for Harry to discard his own robes. There are cooling charms in place, save for the small circle in the middle of the room where Draco’s sitting and handling the moonstone he’s just saved from Harry’s ungloved, curious fingers. He’s got his shirtsleeves folded up to his elbows, and Harry’s awarded with the view of strong forearms and the tensing of muscle and tendon as Draco manoeuvres the moonstone in place. His smooth skin is marred by the faded skull and snake, but even that has become tasteful to Harry, and he drinks in the sight of the mark rippling against the colorful disarray of flowers it’s been encased in. It sways against Draco’s skin as he holds down the clear-quartz mortar while his other hand brings the pestle down and he mutters an incantation as he crushes the moonstone with a steady, measured force.

The crushed moonstone gets transferred to the sapphire-lined pot for safekeeping— _maturing,_ a voice that sounds remarkably like Draco chides in his head—until it’s ready to be put in the potion.

There are reasons for all of this—for the fancy mortar and pestle and the sapphires and the silver and the _no touching_ —and Harry knows the reasons because Draco told him all about it. He told him all about it months ago, once it was evident that Draco’s attempts at shooing Harry away only resulted in him planting himself in Draco’s workroom even more frequently. There’s a reason for every step and every instrument required in making this potion—well, _any_ potion. Draco managed to successfully drill that in Harry’s mind in a way that Snape or Slughorn had not, but Harry just can’t bring himself to remember those reasons right now.

Draco’s crushing some more moonstone and there’s a sheen of sweat that’s starting to collect on his forearms. It makes the flower tattoo seem real and dewy from the perspiration, and Harry’s captivated. It’s been almost a year since they’ve become friendly, yet he still feels pleased about being one of the few who are privy to Draco’s exposed forearms. He’s also certain his mental faculties decide to take leave whenever he gets to see them. The first few times he saw Draco’s mark-laden arm uncovered, it had been difficult not to stare. A tightness in his throat had settled and became difficult to dislodge. But as he spent more time with Draco, Harry slowly realized that he had shifted from trying not to stare at Draco’s mark, to trying not to stare at the intricate curl and weave of flowers softening the skull and snake, to trying not to stare at Draco’s forearms full stop. By the time Harry realized that keeping his eyes from drifting to Draco’s bare forearms was a lost cause, the tightness in his throat had crept lower and lower, instead becoming a near-constant heat in the pit of his stomach and a discomfort in his groin.

“You should probably stop for a while,” Harry offers, too quiet for Draco to hear.

Draco makes an unintelligible noise, and it’s clear that he’s so focused on crushing the stone that Harry’s words fly over his head. It’s difficult not to grow fond of Draco when Harry gets to see him like this, and crushing his growing affection for the git is not as easy as mashing those brilliant moonstones into powder. Harry knows. He’s tried doing both.

Harry slips from his stool and walks over to Draco’s patch of warm circle. Careful not to touch anything else, Harry reaches out and squeezes Draco’s shoulder to catch his attention. “Draco.”

It works. Wide, curious grey eyes look up at him as Draco holds the pestle up, mid-crush. “What?”

“Your forearms,” Harry points out.

Draco blinks for a second but then he catches sight of his sweaty forearms and the confusion clears. “Oh, right. Thanks.” He places the pestle in the mortar, discards his gloves, Summons a clean cloth from the nearby sink, and proceeds to wipe the little beads of sweat that would have been disastrous if mixed in with the powdered moonstone. “We’re lucky you caught that. Maybe you do have your uses in here after all.”

Draco’s tone is teasing, and Harry can’t help but roll his eyes in reply. “I have a NEWT in Potions. I could be plenty useful if I wanted to be.”

“You have a NEWT in Charms, too. Yet I didn’t see you putting it into use on that busty brunette you were eyeing two weeks ago when we went to… what’s-it-called.”

“The busty— Oh, you’re very funny,” Harry deadpans.

“Huh.” Draco’s face is thoughtful as he chews on his inner cheek. “You know I can’t remember what it _is_ called.”

Harry remembers a busty brunette. He also remembers being annoyed by the way her eyes kept wandering to Draco the whole night. Harry scowls. “Wasn’t even that pretty.”

“No, seriously, where did we go?”

“I don’t know.” Harry pulls on his hair, mildly ticked off. “It was Lavender’s idea; ask her.”

The sweat-soiled cloth flies to a hamper, and Draco carefully surveys the pot with a satisfied hum. It’s more than half-full, and if Harry’s right, Draco only needs a bit more to have the sufficient amount of powdered moonstone needed. It is hard work and a bastard of a potion, and Harry’s still amazed that Draco manages to do this month after month without fail on top of his duties as Potions professor and Head of House. Managing hormonal, stubborn teenagers, and trying to decipher essays and make sense of them are no easy tasks after all. 

“It would have been a waste if I had to discard all of this just because of avoidable contamination.” Draco shifts beside him, bending forward slightly to reach for a new pair of gloves, and the powdered moonstone doesn’t seem as captivating. There’s a sliver of skin peeping from underneath Draco’s shirt from the way that the top two buttons are undone, and though Harry’s seen this much skin from Draco before, it’s still a rare enough sight that it makes Harry’s stomach feel as if he’s just hurtled through the Floo. 

Harry shuffles back in guise of examining the Valerian root on the opposite end of the work table. It’s cooler here, and Harry thinks the way his face has heated up is less to do with being in Draco’s warm work circle and more to do with, well, Draco.

He has no intention of testing that theory out.

“You know you’d get this done much faster if you let me help,” Harry tries.

“And you know why I can’t let you.”

Harry rounds the table, leans against the edge, and watches as Draco really puts some elbow into refining the moonstone in his mortar. “Because I suck at Potions?”

“Because I only have one set of these, which are currently in use, and you very well know why we can’t use anything else,” Draco explains, not really cross, as he motions to the mortar and pestle in question.

“But you still think I suck at Potions.”

Draco pauses with a sigh and throws Harry such an unimpressed look that he barely refrains from holding back a snigger. “I did not say that. I am also not going to stroke your ego.”

Harry doesn’t allow his mind to go to any thoughts of stroking. 

“But—” Draco continues, none the wiser of the turmoil that’s warring in Harry’s stomach, “—I should probably train you out of touching things that should not be touched. Maybe with a bit of work we might make a proper lab rat out of you yet.”

Pleased, seeing as that’s the closest thing he can get to a compliment for the moment, Harry says nothing and bites back a smile. They lapse into a comfortable silence until Draco deems the moonstone to be enough. He seals the small container and carefully stores it on the bottom shelf. Tomorrow, Draco will bring it to one of the tamer Greenhouses to let it rest under the moonlight, and maybe afterwards, Harry can convince Draco for a quick fly around the grounds.

They haven’t had a Seekers’ game in ages, but Harry can also do with a bit of leisurely flying. The skies have been clear for the past few nights, and if the weather holds, it would provide magnificent flying conditions.

Harry watches as Draco de-gloves, then he looks on, perplexed, when he starts to reach for another set, clearly planning on continuing with his ingredient prep. “Erm.”

Draco lifts a pale eyebrow, mid–donning, and Harry’s only partially distracted by the way his goggles reflect the bright lights. “What?”

It takes a moment but when Harry realizes it, he can only do so much about the fond exasperation that’s taking over his face. Of course Draco’s forgotten. Harry isn’t even surprised. He’s learned by now that if he were to shove a bunch of potion ingredients and a cauldron under Draco’s nose, he can pretty much get away with most anything.

“What?” Draco repeats, impatiently.

“It’s Friday,” Harry states, not really answering his question.

It’s enough, though. Draco’s face clears, and Harry’s amused to see the way it lights up. “Oh!” Of course, when Draco casts a _Tempus_ to check the time, the delight dissipates and is replaced with something bordering distress because: “We’re going to be late. Merlin, Potter, what use is your poking around my workroom if you can’t even alert me as to the time?”

“I did try to tell you,” Harry says, watching as Draco sets his workplace to rights. “When I came in and you were bottling the Dittany.” 

The air is fuzzy with his magic, and Harry can feel the pleasant tingle that settles on his skin with each wave of Draco’s wand. Harry’s certain that Neville isn’t going to mind. Nor is Lavender. The set time has always been just a formality. Neville’s door is always open to them, but Harry knows better than to point that out to Draco. Not when silver and moonseed and Valerian root were all flying about in an attempt to return to their proper places. “But you were more concerned about my dirty hands.”

A quelling look is sent Harry’s way shortly after he attempts to give Harry’s hands a quick glance. It’s not much use anyway since Harry has shoved them back into his pockets, lest Draco has anything else to say about them. “I don’t know where they’ve been.” Draco shrugs.

Harry has a lot of things he’d like to say to that. But he’s not here to start another hour-long debate with his colleague and as much as he enjoys their banter and the way Draco throws him amused little looks when he knows that Harry’s going to give in, they _will_ be late if they don’t go now. Well, technically late.

“I could regale the fascinating tale of where my hands have been for the past twenty-four hours but as thrilling as that sounds...” Harry grins, watching Draco struggle with his plastic goggles. He’s not going to help him. The prat deserves to suffer. “I thought you didn’t want to be late.”

Draco’s scowl is rendered ineffective. There are pink, wide rims around both his eyes, and some of the shorter strands of his hair are standing up from being clipped too long under the warm temperature of his work circle. He looks ridiculous, and by the way Harry’s heart starts to beat, he knows he’s doomed.

Harry also knows that the Stinging Hex that Draco sends his way when he fails to hold in a snigger is undeserved.

Harry’s still rubbing one side of his bum when Draco re-emerges from his room, hair neat and top all buttoned, shirtsleeves rolled back down without a crease in sight. The pink around his eyes has lightened enough that they’re almost unnoticeable, and Harry’s sure that by the time they arrive at Neville’s quarters, there will be no proof left of Draco having ever worn his brightly-colored goggles. It’s a bit disappointing, but Harry consoles himself with the fact that the full moon is approaching, and that means he has plenty of opportunities to see Draco’s glorious, post-brewing disheveled self.

He’s pulled out of the Potions workroom, and the cool air that hits Harry’s skin makes him rein in a shiver. “Come on.” Draco’s pace contradicts his brisk tone, but a lot of things about Draco are contradictory, and Harry falls into step beside him. Draco’s nose scrunches. “I don’t fancy sitting on the floor.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

They’re not late. Well, not technically. And they don’t get to sit on the floor.

When they arrive, they are welcomed by the sight of Neville lounging on the massive bean bag just a little ways off the side of the fireplace. He’s munching on some crisps, and Lavender is already nursing a glass of Firewhisky on her designated spot on the plush rug. They insist that Harry and Draco take the couch as they always do and they insist that Harry and Draco are not late.

Draco seems to ignore the smug look on Harry’s face as they settle down on the couch, and all time-related concerns and arguments about seating arrangements are forgotten once Neville provides them with much needed refreshments.

That was more than an hour or so ago, Harry thinks. Now, Lavender is currently fiddling with the Wireless and when she reclaims her spot on the rug with a sound of triumph, they find themselves graced with Celestina Warbeck’s low, luscious tones.

There’s a steady supply of alcoholic beverages in the room and they’ve all had a bit to drink, but it is past curfew, and it’s a Friday night. And this is as good as tradition.

“They’re doing a collaboration, did you hear?”

“Who is?” Neville asks, as he opens a foil of milk chocolate and sends it Lavender’s way.

“Celestina and the Wicked Sisters.”

Neville’s gaze turns pensive. “That’s something. What do you reckon, more shrieking or more...” He sways side to side in an exaggerated manner, lips pouting and eyelashes fluttering. Neville receives amused snickering from all of them and gets knocked on the head with a piece of chocolate for all his trouble. 

Harry thinks that sultry seductress is quite a hard look to pull off.

“Why choose, when they can do both?” is Lavender’s very diplomatic answer.

Harry catches the way Draco cringes when Lavender pops a piece of chocolate in her mouth right after she takes a swig of her Firewhisky. 

“Merlin, I hope not. I’m only just imagining my fifth-years getting into _that_ and I can already feel a headache coming.” Neville tucks one foot underneath himself. 

“Can you imagine them shrieking while gyrating their hips?” Lavender wonders, picking at the foil of her half-eaten chocolate. “I don’t know if I find that more odd or arousing.”

Harry learned that it’s best to tune Lavender and Neville out whenever they start broaching these sorts of topics. It’s easy not to focus on their discussion anyway. Beside him, Draco’s pouring himself some fancy elf-made wine that Neville’s procured especially for him, and even if that doesn’t involve the brisk, measured motions of his dicing and crushing and stirring, Harry’s eyes still follow the slow roll of Draco’s wrist, noting it’s strong, sharp lines.

It’s maddening, Harry thinks, the sheer amount of control that Draco has even when he’s not brewing anything.

He has long, elegant fingers, and they look smoother than they really are. Harry knows this the only way a person who’s trained on a broom for hours on end can know. Not for the first time, Harry wonders how they would feel: if Draco’s touch is as steady and controlled when touching someone else as when he’s working on another complicated potion; if Draco’s hands are as skillful in tearing someone down in helpless abandon as they are in building and crafting one of his faultless, liquid creations.

That sort of control, Harry thinks, would be a wonderful thing to wreck.

Harry tries to imagine it—how he would take Draco apart, slowly, piece by piece, and watch his careful restraint crumble under Harry’s hands, his mouth, his tongue…

Well. He imagines it a bit _too_ well.

He knocks back his Firewhisky and relishes the warm burn at the back of his throat. At this point, he can’t quite remember how much he’s had—not when Neville keeps plying him with glass after glass—but Harry’s warm and loose-limbed and relaxed and he’s not complaining when another cold glass is thrust into his hands.

Draco’s eyeing him with concern from the other end of the couch, and Harry has this overwhelming urge to crawl over and smooth the frustrating crease between his brows. Draco looks much better when he’s not frowning.

“’M fine,” Harry mutters, before Draco can even open his mouth to inquire. Or reprimand. Harry can never tell when Draco’s looking at him like that. “Relax.”

Draco eases back into the cushion. “Easy for you to say when it’s your pissed arse I’ll be dragging back to your quarters and not the other way around.”

Harry snorts into his glass. 

The fire’s crackling in the hearth, and Neville and Lavender’s discussion has moved from gyrating hips to Neville’s newest favorite pet plant.

_‘Don’t you be afraid, come and take a sip_

_Of this steamy, tasty treat. . .’_

It’s odd how his Friday nights have morphed into this, but he’s comfortable and almost content, even if there’s a strange plant that’s been miserably failing to knot his shoelaces together for the past minute or so.

It’s of little to no surprise when Harry learned first-hand that Neville’s rooms are filled with strange, unusual plant life. Accepting the Herbology post has only encouraged his friend’s enthusiasm for horticulture, and though sometimes Harry’s concerned about his questionable rearing practices, he’s happy that Neville’s managed to settle into his own, not-so-little niche. Having shared a dorm with him for seven years, Harry hardly blinks now when he discovers that the strange plant that’s been trying to knot his laces together turns out to be a thin, brightly colored, vine-y thing. It’s finally given up and is now wobbling past him, only to plop itself in front of Lavender Brown’s feet.

“—only a matter of time before I can get it properly housetrained—”

“I didn’t even know plants could _do_ that,” Lavender says, managing to sound amazed and disgusted at the same time. Neville looks pleased, though, and Harry opts again to sit out from that particular conversation. He’ll probably hear all about it at breakfast anyway.

“I’ve dragged you back to your room loads of times, too,” Harry turns his attention back to Draco.

The glass filled with elf-made wine in Draco’s hand sparkles, and Harry’s almost jealous when he sips on it.

“I was not, in any way, _dragged_.” He bristles. He’s watching Harry as he swirls his fancy wine, and Harry’s throat suddenly feels parched despite having only just drank his own beverage. Harry’s always been aware of the weight of those grey eyes when they’re trained at him, but it’s only much recently that he’s realized just how often that happens and just how much he likes it when it does. “And anyway, my rooms are by the dungeon,” Draco points out, “Yours is atop a moody, blood-thirsty staircase.”

“What’s my staircase ever done to you?” Harry grumbles and offers not much else in the way of argument. He’s grown almost fond of his moody staircase, even if it still tries to break his neck with a vanishing step from time to time. It’s a complicated, love-hate relationship.

Lavender laughs, wickedly amused, when the vine-y thing attempts to climb atop Neville’s head but ends up pulling out a few hairs in the process. Harry is cheered when her smile stretches so wide that it manages to almost clear the ever-present shadows cast by the scars that mar her pretty face. She needs to smile more. They _all_ need to smile more.

“Do you even know how much of that poor excuse of liquor you’ve managed to imbibe?”

“No.” Harry peers inside his own glass, considering. “It doesn’t taste that bad.” Although, he supposes he understands its lack of appeal to Draco’s refined taste. “Do you want some?”

“No, I can’t stand the taste.” Draco scrunches his nose. “Wine is much more palatable.”

“Palatable,” Harry tries the word on for size, delighted at the way it rolls off his tongue. But then Harry realizes that Draco sounds like a snob and he’s just gone and copied him, so he scoffs. He places his glass on the low table and sits back, the sudden movement making him feel incredibly light-headed. The couch feels unsteady, but he’s fairly sure he’s just tipsy, a couple of glasses short of being fully pissed. Draco’s shoulder is there to steady him though, and he allows himself to lean against it for a moment.

 _‘They’re why my cauldron full of hot, strong love is worth it, take the chance!’_ Lavender sings along. She gazes out of the window and a wistful expression falls on her face. The half-moon is such a stark reminder of what’s to come, and Harry’s thrown back to Draco’s potions workroom, submerged in the fragrant lemony aroma of Dittany and the sharp, earthy scent of Valerian Root.

“Lav, catch.” Another foil-wrapped chocolate sails across the room, and Lavender flashes Neville a grateful smile as she catches it.

They don’t have to worry about the full moon yet. The Wolfsbane will be ready by the time the moon waxes, as it always is, and then they will accompany Lavender to the Shrieking Shack before she transforms, calm, harmless, and not defenseless to her wolf-addled instincts. For now they have Firewhisky, and elf-made wine, and each other’s company, and Celestina’s tones trying to seduce someone to stir her cauldron.

Harry wants to stir someone’s cauldron. Just not Celestina’s. 

“Would you like to taste?” Draco asks.

Harry looks up, careful not to be displaced from the comfortable place he’s managed to secure for himself. In his peripheral vision, he sees Draco offering his glass, but the proffered drink doesn’t do much to interest him. He’s more interested in something closer: Draco’s lips are moist and slightly parted, and much more enticing than a glass of wine—than a glass of anything in Harry’s honest opinion.

_‘Oh, such thrills await,_

_‘Cause together, we are ready to proceed. . .’_

“Harry?” Draco prods, his tempting mouth turning down slightly, making the lower lip plumper and, yes, _yes_ , Harry decides, he would very much like a taste.

Harry wets his lips. He sees the way Draco’s eyes catch the movement. Bright grey eyes chase the flick of Harry’s tongue on his lower lip and Harry watches as Draco visibly gulps.

Alcohol-flushed skin colors even more under Harry’s heated gaze. The dusting of color along Draco’s cheeks is striking, and Harry’s fingers are itching to find out whether the dark pink will turn to red underneath his touch. 

Harry tilts his head up. Draco’s breath is a warm gust of air on Harry’s face and the smell of alcohol is almost concealed as Harry’s assaulted with Draco’s stronger scent of apples and citrus. The scent is overpowering in the best of ways, making Harry feel even more light-headed. 

Harry inches closer until their noses nudge against each other. Harry hears the sharp intake of breath and his heart starts to flutter like a Snitch’s wings. Puffs of air sweep across his cheek and Harry draws his own shaky breath. 

His mouth grazes Draco’s cheek. Slides lower. Trails over the dip of cheekbones to the corner of Draco’s parted mouth. Draco does not move away.

His stomach is in knots and his palms are cold-sweaty and they are suspended in what could be seconds or lifetimes before Harry breaks and, fueled with liquid-courage, presses his lips against Draco’s. 

There’s a sound of shattering glass but Harry can’t bring himself to care. Draco’s lips are soft, smooth velvet brushing against his own. He traces over the slope of it’s cupid’s bow with the tip of his tongue, before catching Draco’s upper lip in between his teeth. Draco’s mouth is hesitant against his but they open as Harry licks into it. The ever-present tightness in Harry’s chest uncoils as he sighs into the kiss. 

Harry can taste the heady sweetness of the wine on his tongue and in his breath, and Draco’s right, it does taste good. The static in Harry’s brain grows louder until his thoughts are fuzzy and alight with nothing but the sensation of Draco’s lips and teeth and mouth. 

Harry’s hand splays against Draco’s chest—he can feel Draco’s heart beating, strong and quick against his palm—and Draco’s body comes alive underneath his touch. There’s a hand sliding into place on Harry’s shoulder and Harry’s distantly aware of the way Draco’s hand tenses and relaxes, almost as if it can’t decide whether to pull Harry closer or push him off. Harry’s fingers fist into Draco’s shirt, wanting to keep him in place, but then Draco’s hand gives a firm push, and Harry obliges albeit reluctantly.

When he blinks, vision returning, it’s to three pairs of eyes staring at him with varying expressions of interest. It takes a few moments before he realizes exactly what’s just happened.

Maybe he’s tipsier than he initially thought. 

Celestina continues to croon in the background, and Harry doesn’t know whether he appreciates it or if he’d rather have her shut the hell up about her bloody cauldron. He wonders if he can convince Neville’s plant to kindly devour him and spare him the misery of having to explain what he’s just done.

Neville clears his throat, and the look he’s giving Harry is both kind and uncertain, if not a little amused. “If you’re suddenly the kissy kind of drunk, Harry, please, er, don’t.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Lavender quips, with a smile that looks far too innocent to be anything _but_ that, from her place on the purple rug. “Other people might, though, and I’d really rather keep my head on at the next full moon.”

Harry wants to argue that Draco wouldn’t begrudge Lavender her Wolfsbane, not for anything, not when he’s been working so meticulously on it for the past few days as he does for her each month. But Harry’s throat is closing up and his face warms like it’s been lit with a great, bloody _Lumos._ In the end, all he manages is a small, dismayed sound and despite having just kissed the man, he refuses to look at Draco who is all pointy and motionless beside him.

“I think it’s about time we get you to bed,” is all that Draco says when he finally does speak up, and the quiet tone he uses does not help Harry work out where they stand in the slightest.

Harry vaguely hears Neville offering to have him stay the night if he’s too pissed to make it back to his room, but he’s too busy wallowing to supply an answer.

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco announces, “I’ve got him.”

Draco’s not looking at him, though, even as he helps Harry to his feet and steadies him. Harry’s stomach sinks. He’s going to be sick and he’s sure the nausea has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he’s ingested and more to do with the certain knowledge that he’s bollocksed it all up.

_‘There’s no potion or elixir that_

_Could ever quite compare!’_

The melodic vocals almost drown out their friends’ furious mutterings as Draco leads them out of Neville’s personal quarters, but even when her voice crescendos, Harry still hears Neville’s “Goodbye, three Galleons,” and Lavender’s “—should have bet more against Filius.”

Harry decides right there, as Draco’s arm winds around his waist in a firmer grip, that he has horrible colleagues and even more horrible friends, and that they are all going to hell.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The silence is heavy and uncertain as they make their way up to Harry’s room, and even though Harry’s sure he can walk a straight line without assistance—he thinks he can even do star jumps without falling into a heap of tangled limbs at this point, having been shocked near as sober by the mess he’s managed to get himself into—he still lets Draco hold him up. The physical proximity does nothing to bridge the careful distance that Draco’s enforced since he pushed Harry off, but Draco’s not running for the hills and he’s letting Harry nudge in close, and that’s something, at least.

The staircases are kind to them, and even Harry’s temperamental one seems to have grasped that neither of them are in a playful mood, nor in the correct headspace to avoid vanishing steps or broken appendages.

“Do you still have a stock of Hangover Potion? Because I will not take kindly to you banging down my door on a Saturday morning just because of a bloody headache.”

“Yes. Draco, look, can we—”

Draco raises a hand, and Harry’s mouth snaps shut. He watches the same long, pale fingers drag through white-blond hair. Harry can feel the weariness seep out of Draco in waves as exhaustion softens the hard lines and sharp angles of his face. Heat pools with a surprising rush in his belly. “Not tonight, Harry.”

“I only want to talk.” Harry reasons.

“Your breath smells of Firewhisky,” Draco observes. “You are clearly inebriated, and I am not going to engage in a potentially important conversation with you while you’re pissed, and nor am I going to engage in anything else.”

A vanishing step would be really useful right now, Harry believes, as he tries not to think about the way his face feels too hot. “I’m not pissed,” Harry insists.

Harry looks straight into Draco’s eyes, refusing to be the one who yields. He’s done enough of that for one night, and just look at where that’s got him. For a moment, Harry thinks he’s won. Fingers dig where Draco’s holding him steady on his hip, and his frown eases.

Opening his mouth again, he falters. He sees the tightening of Draco’s jaw as he stares hard at Harry, and something seems to shift in his pale eyes, uncompromising, “Not tonight.”

He knows there’s no getting around Draco when he looks at him like this. They’re both stubborn to a fault, and this could go on for the entire night if they let it. Harry’s certain Draco wouldn’t appreciate that, and Harry’s coming to terms that Draco’s right even if Harry doesn’t really want to admit it. This isn’t something they should talk about in the middle of a dim corridor with alcohol strumming through their veins, making everything blurry and shaky.

Harry sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

They resume their trek to Harry’s room.

They pass by a ghost or two who watch them with thinly veiled interest. Not for the first time, Harry wonders just how many pissed professors the Hogwarts ghosts have witnessed stumbling through corridors throughout their existence. Surely he and his friends haven’t been the only ones who snuck a drink or two.

Draco says nothing else to him until he deposits Harry in front of his quarters. “You’re not going to pass out on the floor if I leave you here, are you? I don’t want to traumatize any student who might happen upon you.” He pauses, considering. “Not to mention the potential drool.”

“I’m not—” Harry bristles but immediately deflates. No matter how many times he repeats _‘I’m not that drunk’,_ Draco’s not going to budge. He settles on, “I do not drool. And the floor in my room is much more comfortable.”

Draco quirks an eyebrow. “I’m very tempted to ask how you know that, but I think I’d rather not.”

Despite his lighter tone, the hesitation is clear on Draco’s face, and it somehow eases the rumbling worry that’s been racing through Harry’s mind for the past few minutes.

Harry decides to take mercy on him. They have all the time to be twitchy and awkward tomorrow. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Draco nods. “Tomorrow.” He seems to be at odds with something. Still, Draco reaches out and his thumb skims atop Harry’s lips. “Good night, Harry.”

He watches Draco’s retreating figure, and even when he’s nothing more than an indistinct shadow, Harry’s lips still burn with the fleeting touch.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

As he lies in bed recalling the warm weight of Draco’s body against his, a deep ache gnaws at his chest and longing prickles under his skin. Something gives, and Harry finally allows himself to take his cock in hand, imagining instead deft, skillful fingers gliding up and down the heated shaft. He rolls his thumb over the head of his cock, teasing the heated flesh slowly. Breath catching, he moves his fingers down, pulling the sensitive skin of his foreskin along with it. His body is taut with frustration and as he starts to move his hand in slow, dragging strokes, he lets himself melt into the covers with relief.

Eyelids closing, he imagines how the press of Draco’s thumb against his lip would feel like if instead it brushes against his slit, probing, teasing. He groans as his thumb dips into it, and he jerks into his circle of fingers wishing that it was _tighter-softer-wetter_. He gives himself a light squeeze and with his free hand he Summons the bottle of lube in his bedside table drawer, and tips a generous amount over the reddened head of his cock.

It’s warm and slippery and the slick slide of his hand as he repeatedly brings it down to the base of his cock and back up with a satisfying flick of his wrist makes his heels dig into the mattress and his body shudders.

His other hand slides down from his stomach, down the curve of his hip, past his groin, and reaches further down to play with his bollocks. He rolls one along his palm, gives it a light tug before he releases it, copies the same motions to the other, and makes sparks of pleasure zip up his spine. 

Harry’s coiled tight from months of watching and wanting and this is not going to take long at all.

He imagines Draco’s bright grey eyes on him, watching him like he does when he explores Draco’s workroom, following his every movement, and Harry thinks that whatever spare blood is left in his body rushes to his aching cock. He sees Draco’s piercing eyes behind his closed lids, focused solely on him as Harry pleasures himself, sees Draco crawl over Harry’s supine form that’s already covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Mind-Draco is all sharp angles and measured movements, and he knocks Harry’s hand away, replaces it with his own, insistent in taking Harry apart by his own hand.

Mind-Draco teases him with strokes of fingers underneath the glans, alternates quick tugs with slow, downward strokes.

Harry’s body is burning, and the room is filled with his loud, ragged breaths, punctuated by the obscene sound of the wet slide of flesh on flesh. He thrusts into his hand, building a steady rhythm as the heat in his groin builds into licking tendrils of flame that makes the tip of his cock bead precum.

His mind flies off to familiar memories of Draco’s hands moving swiftly over his cauldron, steady and sure, and he tries to replicate Draco’s firm grip as he handles the pestle and brings it down over and over. He recalls the controlled flick of Draco’s wrist when he throws all sorts of pretty and odd and colorful things into his cauldron, making the room heated and suffused with interlacing scents, just as he makes Harry’s blood boil and his skin flare with unrivalled desire.

Harry’s breath hitches as he flicks his wrist, sweeps over the sensitive glans, and his legs quiver as he tries to chase his release. He squirms against the covers, mouth open as uninhibited sounds of pleasure spill from parted lips. 

His brow furrows in an echo of the small crease of concentration on Draco’s brow, and Harry tugs at himself the way he wants to smooth that little crease away. Slow and firm and sensuous.

Months of pent-up longing urges him on and with each slippery stroke of his hand and each sound ripped from his throat, Harry’s guilt and shame blends with desperation and yearning. His hand speeds up, flying up and down his throbbing flesh. It’s a blur of movement as he thrusts into it, arse clenching as he brings his hips up. Legs shaking from the exertion, he fucks into his hand, the dirty squelching noises of lube and foreskin only egging him on. 

He’s so close, and he knows once he allows himself to tip over there’s most certainly no going back for him.

He thinks the crash is inevitable anyway.

It’s with the warm memory of the shape of Draco’s mouth against his that he falls into a dizzying spiral.

It’s all too much and too little, and sooner than he’d like, Harry’s body tenses. His balls draw up, his stomach clenches then unravels, heat exploding in one giant mess of warm liquid over his hand. He opens his eyes and lies there, loose-limbed and sated, as he tries to catch his breath. A quick _Scourgify_ falls from his lips when he starts to feel more sticky than satisfied, and once the tingling sensation of the cleaning charm leaves him feeling less disgusting than a few seconds ago, he allows the heady state of well-being to consume him and chase all his doubts and uncertainties away, just for tonight.

Turning, he burrows his face into his soft, comfortable pillow and finally falls into a dreamless sleep.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

It’s not a Hogsmeade weekend, so students are milling around the corridors when Harry makes his way to the Great Hall for lunch. Unsurprisingly, Draco is again noticeably absent at the staff table as he was this morning, and Harry is only coming to terms with the thought that he might not get a chance to talk to Draco today after all.

They still have to deposit the crushed moonstone in the Greenhouses tonight, but Harry is growing disheartened as the day trudges on. He wonders whether he’d actually managed to ruin his friendship with Draco after all. Last night though…

 _‘Tomorrow’_ and _‘Not tonight’_ and a calloused thumb on his lips are all still on the forefront of his mind and Harry can’t help hoping that they mean something.

 _No_. There are plenty of reasons for Draco’s absence, and Harry stubbornly refuses to think that the reason involves him.

Half-heartedly, he scoops some potatoes into his plate and munches on pensively. It’s not quiet in the Great Hall—there’s the low rumbling of students’ voices and the quiet tones of his colleagues indulging in castle gossip—but he’s gotten so used to having Draco babbling some nonsense commentary beside him about one thing or other that lunch feels gloomy and distasteful without it.

Harry has half a mind to rush back to his rooms, whip out his old map and scour the grounds for Draco, but he thinks he knows it’s better to let Draco come to him. Harry’s had months to come to terms about how he feels about Draco, after all. He reckons if he’s managed to wait this long then he can wait for a few more hours. Or days. Hopefully not days.

“Still hiding?”

Harry grimaces. Looking up from his unappetizing lunch, he throws a scowl Lavender’s way when she plops next to him. Harry has to stop himself from pulling the seat away. It’s Draco’s seat. He stabs a potato with more force than necessary.

“You don’t know that. Maybe he’s actually busy,” Neville points out from his place on Harry’s other side. “Full moon.”

“Or he’s hiding,” Lavender repeats, as her lunch appears in front of her with an almost inaudible _pop_.

“Must you?” Juicy fluids leak out while she cuts up her bloody steak and Harry watches with little fascination.

She shrugs. “It’s not going to make it any less true even if I don’t say it, Harry. Besides, you’re thinking it anyway. I’m merely voicing it.”

“I still say he’s gotten tangled up in his brewing again.” A small green tendril of plant life dangles precariously from the hair on Neville’s temple as he turns to face them. Harry wonders if all Herbology professors always have some sort of greenery dangling from their hair. “You know he usually passes by the greenhouses to collect the roots himself, but I got an owl this morning asking for some.”

“Still doesn’t prove that he’s not hiding,” Lavender says.

Harry tries very hard not to forget that he’s fond of Lavender Brown now and that, when it comes down to it, she is indeed a good friend. Well, he’s fonder of her than he was back in sixth year when she was too busy being attached to his best mate’s lips and cooing at him. Maybe he should remind her.

“So what if he is hiding?” Neville pipes up.

“So nothing.” Lavender shrugs. “It’s only Harry who’s making a big deal out of it.”

Harry splutters. “I am not.”

The scars move like an undulating wave as Lavender quips an eyebrow. Harry is so used to it by now that he doesn’t need to remind himself not to stare anymore. “Please, I could see you making eyes at your roast potatoes as soon as I entered the Great Hall.”

“I’m not very fond of roast potatoes.”

“You’re fond of _food_.”

“I seriously hope that you’re not confusing me for Ron, Lav.”

There’s a stream of coughing at his side as Neville chokes on his drink. Lavender waves her fork at him, bloody steak speared and all, and Harry’s just thankful that his lunch remains fluid-free despite the abundance of liquid sources coming from either side of him. “You do _not_ want to go there, Potter.”

“Remember last time, Harry—”

When Neville starts to wheeze, Harry thumps him lightly on his back. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

“The point, Harry,” Lavender presses on, “is that it’s not a big deal. Whether Draco’s avoiding you or not, he can’t keep hiding forever. Either he comes out of his potions cave or you come barreling in.”

“Hey—”

Lavender leans in front of him and slams a hand beside Neville’s plate. “Two Galleons that Harry caves first.”

Neville perks up, and Harry thinks maybe he should have just let him keep choking on his bloody pumpkin juice. “Three Galleons that Harry caves before Monday.”

“ _Harry_ is sitting right here!” Harry bristles.

“Damn it, I should have called that,” Lavender ignores him, obviously doing some mental computation.

“Oh, oh!” All three pairs of eyes swivel to Lavender’s left where Professor Flitwick waves his hand up merrily. “Three Galleons that Harry caves before Sunday.”

Harry has the remarkable urge to slam his head down on his roast potatoes, but before his plan can come to fruition, a stern, yet amused voice sounds from beside Filius. “Five Galleons that Harry caves before the day ends.”

Minerva’s lips twitch as she peers at them from her place at the center of the staff table, and as his colleagues continue to discuss his apparently wretched impulse control, not for the first time, Harry wonders just how his life has come to this.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I was wondering whether I’d see you today.”

“So have I. Well, me, and the rest of the staff,” Harry grumbles.

“What was that?” comes the distracted response.

Harry clears his throat. “I said, I was wondering the same thing.”

There’s a spark of blue and pink and a flash of purple, and Harry’s eyes are easily drawn in with the way Draco’s wand is weaving pretty colors around the mustard pot. Draco’s silent for a long moment. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

The sky is clear, and the moonlight streaming through the glass walls is only made more ethereal by the sparks of color that are dancing out from the tip of Draco’s wand. Despite the hour, Greenhouse two is teeming with life—the more curious plants are decidedly awake and paying attention. At least, Harry thinks they are by the way that some of their appendages are waving and rolling around their pots and places in the soil. There’s a particularly daring flitterbloom just a few feet from Harry that has one of its long tentacles trying to invade its neighbor’s pot.

Harry leans against the door. “When have I not?”

There’s a slight twitch of Draco’s lips, and it’s ridiculous; it’s not been a whole day since he’s last seen the git, but there’s an ache in Harry’s chest at the sight of him all crouched and placing protective spells over the powdered moonstone’s container.

If he’s being honest, there was a brief moment when he considered actually sitting this one out. But they’ve done this together for months now, ever since Harry started making amends and insisted on helping Draco with the Wolfsbane (maybe with some unsubtle nudging by the Headmistress), and Harry knows he would be pacing about his room right now and wasting his time if he didn’t come.

If he is going to waste time, best do it here. With Draco. Who is _not_ avoiding him, or hiding. 

Draco stands, and Harry can now see the bright orb surrounding the open mustard pot. Inside, the powdered moonstone glitters, and the sapphire lining casts a cool glow that turns the contents into a pretty pink-purple color.

“Well,” Draco replies, “given the circumstances, I wasn’t entirely certain.”

Harry pushes off from the greenhouse door and moves closer. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure either.”

“Oh.”

Draco shifts from one foot to the other.

“I wasn’t sure whether you’d want to see me after…” Harry shrugs. “I thought you might want some space but—” Harry gestures from the glowing mustard pot to the bright moon. 

“Moon Night. Yes.” Draco’s face is luminescent. The glowing orb casts a purplish tint to his jaw and his cheeks, and Harry thinks it makes Draco look funny. Harry is also finding it very difficult to look away.

“I thought you were never going to call it that?”

“You’re stubbornness must be wearing me down.”

“Hm.” Kneeling beside the open box just by Draco’s feet, Harry gives the thing a light tap of his knuckles. “Moon Kit?”

Draco looks down, amused for the most part. “You haven’t worn me out _that_ much, yet.”

Harry grins. “Yet?”

Draco rolls his eyes. His fingers are fiddling with his wand, and Harry knows that he must feel more nervous than he lets on. “Shouldn’t you be making yourself useful?”

“You know,” Harry starts, plucking his wand from his holster and pointing it at the sealed, glass container of moon seed. “Sometimes I think you only keep me around for the free labor.” Carefully, the container flies out of Draco’s Moon Kit and is gently placed on its designated spot beside the pot of powdered moonstone. Tomorrow morning, when Neville does his rounds between his greenhouses, he’ll cover the containers and shade them from the sun’s rays. By nightfall, they’ll have matured quite nicely and Draco and Harry will venture back into Greenhouse Two to collect them.

Draco nudges him with his leg. “ _You_ know that’s only partly true.”

Harry snorts. Again, the tip of Draco’s wand is alight with pretty colors. His wand hand flows like a gentle stream, bending and twisting, as it guides the row of lights into an orb much like the one he made earlier. Draco’s offered to let Harry do the protective orb spells quite a few times before, but Harry really likes watching Draco do it. Not that he’s ever told him that.

The truth of the matter is, Draco can pretty much accomplish everything they do on Moon Night by himself. But Harry likes to think that, like him, Draco appreciates the company.

“Have you checked on the Aconite?” Harry asks as he heaves himself off the ground.

“No, but Neville says they’re growing nicely.” Draco’s wand does a little twirl and with a flick of his wrist, another glowing orb sits next to the first one, protecting both ingredients from the outside elements. “From his level of enthusiasm, I gather that they’ll be ready for harvesting for the next moon as expected.”

Harry hums, gaze drawn to the flicker of movement that made itself known to the corner of his vision.

The flitterbloom that Harry saw earlier is now engaged in one of the oddest wrestling matches he’s ever witnessed, and Harry knows it’s coming before it happens.

One by one, each tentacle wraps around its wrestling partner, and in one quick motion, the daring flitterbloom tugs. Its neighbor is unearthed from its pot which hits the edge of a table with a resounding _crack._ The aggrieved flitterbloom, now homeless, wraps its free tentacles around the instigator bloom’s pot and the resulting image makes Harry wonder just what sort of madness Neville has to witness in each of his Greenhouses on a daily basis.

There’s soil and clay debris everywhere, and he decides this has got to be one of the more exciting Moon Nights that they’ve had. Harry’s debating whether he should pry the flitterblooms away from each other and reinstate a semblance of order, but the appalled sound coming from Draco makes him put that thought on hold. 

Harry tries not to laugh. He really does.

“I don’t see what’s funny, Harry.”

Draco looks entirely put out, and Harry can’t help but grin harder.

There are bits of soil on one side of his head, and Harry’s impressed with the flying pot’s velocity to have produced this sort of mess. He’s also quite certain that he’s never seen Draco this dirty, and he can’t help but feel a bit giddy.

“No?” Harry plucks a bit of soil and Draco cringes. “I could Summon you a mirror.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Harry sniggers, throwing the bit of soil behind him. There’s some scuffing sound behind him and Harry can only wonder what those flitterblooms are up to _now._

“Here, let me.”

He makes good work of the huge chunks of soil atop Draco’s hair, plucking them off quite effortlessly until there’s a small lump of dirt by Harry’s feet.

It’s only by the time he’s done (and realizes how he could probably have just _Scourgified_ the mess away) that Harry’s realized how Draco’s grown quiet. Harry has also realized that in the process of grooming Draco’s hair, he’s managed to shuffle closer and now, he finds that he can’t move away. Can’t or doesn’t want to, he hasn’t decided yet.

This close, Harry doesn’t need his glasses to see Draco’s face clearly. Even without them, he knows he’ll be able to see the exact same thing—long, pale lashes, flecks of blue and grey and wide-blown pupils trained on Harry’s own. Draco’s expression is so open and so different from last night, and even then, seeing the spark of desire that he’s certain is mirrored on his own face, Harry cannot move.

He gulps and draws a shaky breath.

“I should probably— erm. Cleaning charm.”

“Probably,” Draco answers in the same quiet tone.

“And you should probably clean up once we get back.”

“Probably.”

“It was just on your hair.”

“It was.”

“Your face is clean.”

“Is it?”

“Draco.”

“Yes?”

“I want to kiss you.”

For all the flurry of life inside it a while ago, the Greenhouse is oddly still now. It’s waiting, holding its breath, Harry thinks. Like him.

Draco lets out a long breath. 

“I think I want that, too.”

In the space of a heartbeat, lips move against his, and Harry sighs against them in relief and elation. Draco’s lips are soft despite being wind-chapped, and even without drops of wine on them, they still taste just as sweet.

It’s minutes, hours, seasons before they resurface, and when they do it’s only to dive right back in and come crashing against each other again. Draco’s mouth turns from cool and searching to _warm-hot-fiery-demanding,_ and Harry can do nothing but let it devour him.

He’s drowning—he’s been drowning for a while now—and he has no desire to save himself, not when for the first time in what seems to be a long while, Harry can finally breathe again.

And there is that—a moment to breathe again. Draco eases off slightly, mouth still on Harry’s skin, and Harry shudders as he feels the hot breath mark a trail down his jaw to his neck.

“Do you want to…?”

Draco nibbles lightly on the slope of Harry’s neck, and Harry leans against him. “Not here, I don’t.”

“I won’t believe you if you keep doing that.” 

“Doing what?” Fingers fumble on buttons and zips, and it’s doubly hard to focus when Draco, despite his words, is apparently trying to get him undressed. Not to mention there’s a sinful mouth attached to Harry’s neck—nibbling and licking and making him— 

“Nngh—”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Smug bastard licks a stripe against Harry’s jaw, and really, Harry can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed. “Use your words, Harry.”

He cups Draco through his trousers and is awarded with a muffled something that Harry can’t decipher but he decides must be a good thing. A very good thing, Harry muses, as he rubs Draco’s erection and the sound makes a re-appearance. Harry sniggers. “Use your words, Draco.”

“Sod off.”

“Fuck—” with a firm grip on Harry’s hips and a warm mouth sucking on damp skin, Harry thinks he very much likes being shut up like this. He thinks this is the most trouble he’s had with trying to stay coherent. “What happened to ‘not here’?”

Draco snorts against his neck. “You decide to listen to me now? Really?” 

Long elegant fingers are worming their way into Harry’s pants, tickling as it dances with the coarse hair trailing lower and lower and stops short before it reaches where Harry desperately wants to be touched. They tease along the base of Harry’s cock, and Harry groans, trying to shift into the touch that’s skittering away. 

“You are being a horrible, _horrible_ tease right now. It’s not very endearing.”

The fingers—the mesmerizing fingers that Harry has watched weave magic into cauldrons and potions with rapt attention for months now—disappear completely and, extremely discontented, Harry pulls on Draco’s hair hard enough to earn a very satisfying yelp.

“Alright, Potter, I like a bit of hair tugging as much as the next person but ouch?” Draco rubs at the spot, looking just a bit petulant.

Harry is not, in any way, remorseful. “Well, someone needs to make up their damned mind.” With his fingers firmly clenched on Draco’s hair, he clashes their mouths together in a whirl of tongue and teeth.

He sucks on Draco’s bottom lip, earning himself a whimper, and Harry continues ravaging Draco’s mouth with his own. Their tongues roll together and it’s a battle of dominance as they lick into each other’s mouths—hands flying over shoulders and chests and arses, tugging and pulling _closer-closer-not-enough_ , erections pressed together through what seems to be too many layers of clothing.

Draco’s hand slides between them again, slipping into Harry’s pants as his tongue slides into Harry’s mouth when Harry yields. He grasps Harry’s cock and gives it an insistent tug. It looks like an uncomfortable position, but it feels bloody brilliant, and Harry groans into Draco’s mouth. He tries to give it another tug, but Harry’s jeans are in the way and Draco growls in frustration. Breath ragged and aching, Harry pulls away just a bit in an attempt to calm his racing heart.

“Tell me,” Harry rasps.

“What?” Draco murmurs against his kiss-swollen mouth.

“Tell me,” Harry draws back, shaky and chest pounding, “What you want. Tell me.”

Draco looks at him, and Harry’s body lights up like an inferno. The air pulses between them, and Draco releases a shuddering breath before he closes his eyes. He rests his forehead against Harry’s and takes several calming breaths. It’s a span of heartbeats before he speaks. “I want you.”

 _Obviously_ , Harry thinks, feeling Draco’s hard length press against his inner thigh. “I hear a ‘but’.”

“But Neville’s pet plant has just showered me with dirt and I feel disgusting. And we’re in a _Greenhouse._ ” Grey eyes slide over his shoulder and Draco cringes. “And that flitterbloom behind you is overly enthusiastic.”

With the way Draco’s hand is shoved into Harry’s pants, he thinks the flitterbloom part is the least of Draco’s worries.

Harry bites back a sigh. He trails his fingers down Draco’s arm, feeling the raised swirl of flowers and vines on his exposed forearm before his hand curls lightly on Draco’s wrist, ignoring the way his cock throbs against Draco’s palm. Gently, he eases Draco’s hand off him, tries his best to collect himself, and puts an acceptable distance between them. Draco is flushed and ruffled, and Harry is reminded of post-goggles-Draco and it does nothing to curb Harry’s desire for _more._ Draco’s lips are red and moist and sinful to look at, and Harry thinks his friends are really underestimating his impulse control because if it were up to him, he’d still be nibbling on that full bottom lip and tearing delightful noises out of Draco’s mouth.

He tucks a strand of hair behind Draco’s ear. “Then we should probably head back.”

Draco frowns at Harry’s unbuttoned jeans. “When have you ever been the more sensible one?”

“It’s been known to happen once in a while, but more curious things have happened, I’m sure.”

They stare at each other, calmer now, even if the light, easy feeling of amusement is laced with a heavy, lingering understanding of wanting something _more_. Something behind Harry clatters and he most definitely refuses to look. “Whoever said Flitterblooms are harmless is sorely mistaken.”

“Neville must have a lot to say about that,” Draco shudders. “I, for one, have had enough of flying pots for one evening, thanks.”

Without another word they both set themselves to rights and all buttons and zips in order, with one last check that both Moonstone and Moon seed containers are sealed in their respective orbs, they lock the Greenhouse behind them. Their arms brush as they head back towards the castle, Moon Kit bobbing behind them. The urge to reach out is strong, but Harry manages to keep himself in check. 

_See. How’s that for impulse control?_ Harry thinks.

In the distance, he can spy the Whomping Willow looking as inconspicuous as ever, branches gently swaying along with the cool night breeze. It must be lonely for Lavender, Harry thinks, spending the night alone in that beat up old shack. Remus had his dad and Sirius and even Pettigrew. Lavender… well. 

_No,_ Harry thinks. 

They might not be able to stay with her during the full moon but she knows that she has them— him and Draco and Neville—all waiting to ply her with her favorite chocolates and regale her with tales about who they caught snogging whom in which broom cupboard or unused classroom or dimly lit corridor during their patrol. And that counts for something, Harry knows. 

A cold finger traces the inside of his palm.

Harry glances at Draco with a raised brow. “How is your hand already cold?”

“I get cold easily, you know that,” Draco points out. Yes, Harry does know that. “And you are a perpetual bloody furnace in comparison.” Harry knows that, too.

“Are you asking me to hold your hand, Draco?” Harry’s mouth twitches.

“No.” 

Harry’s reaches for Draco’s hand anyway. His fingers are cold when they wrap around Harry’s, and when Draco shuffles closer, Harry doesn’t even bother hiding his shit-eating grin.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you might leap over my table and jump me at any second.”

“I have had that thought,” Harry admits, “For a while now.”

“If you do anything to botch up this batch of Wolfsbane, I will skin you alive,” Draco says, looking unsurprised as he re-applies the stasis over the cauldron, “And normally I dislike sharing, but I think I’ll leave some leftover pieces of you for Lavender. She’ll want her turn, surely, since it’s her potion you’re going to ruin.”

Harry rolls his eyes. It may have taken a while—what with the kissing and touching and pressing against each other against darkened patches of wall on the way back to Draco’s chambers—but here they are. The deep-seated urge to kiss Draco and touch him still sizzles atop Harry’s skin, and it takes everything Harry has to stop himself from doing just what Draco’s surmised he might do.

After all, he doesn’t want to ruin the Wolfsbane. And he also doesn’t want to be on the other end of Lavender’s creatively colored nails.

“There’s no need to get violent.” Harry moves to the far end of the table for good measure. “I can wait.”

“Would you look at that,” Draco mutters. “Miracles do happen.”

“Shut up.”

“Later. I might even let you do the honors.”

“I do enjoy shutting you up.”

With everything back in their proper place, Harry follows Draco to the other end of the room and pauses just in front of the door to his quarters. Draco looks back at him when he notices that he doesn’t follow. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Considering how much Draco’s been to Harry’s own quarters, Harry can’t help but find it curious how he’s only ever been inside Draco’s room less than a handful of times before, and only to deposit Draco into his bed after he’s gone and gotten himself pissed as fuck. It’s never left him with much time to survey the interior but now that he’s given free reign to snoop around, he finds that he can’t focus on anything else but Draco.

He supposes by now, he shouldn’t really be surprised.

Heart hammering in his chest, Harry crosses the threshold and stops short, just a few paces from where Draco’s standing. “Aren’t you going to get cleaned up?”

“I’m revisiting that particular decision,” says Draco matter-of-factly. He takes off his cloak and sends it flying to a far corner of the room. The dark pink shirt reminds Harry of how Draco’s skin looked in the Greenhouse, and his trousers move like a second skin as Draco strides across the room and spells the flame inside the light orb. “If I’m just going to get dirty again, getting cleaned up now would be counterproductive, don’t you agree?”

The low light casts shadows on Draco’s face, making his eyes look darker and his features sharper. The lines of his face are striking, and Harry wants to soften all the edges with his tongue. Harry’s face must betray his thoughts because Draco’s sending such an intense look his way, making his half-hard cock spring back to full attention.

Harry licks his lips, and they tingle in anticipation as Draco’s eyes slide toward it. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Let’s make the cleaning up worth it, shall we?” 

Harry can definitely help with that. With a slow grin, he pulls Draco in and their mouths move together, slow and gentle, as long, dextrous fingers move up Harry’s chest, and lean arms wind around his neck. 

There’s no rush now while their tongues tangle together, and Harry pulls Draco along as he moves them further into the room. The back of his knees meet the soft, bouncy mattress of Draco’s bed and he sinks down, sitting on the edge, tugging Draco with him. Draco follows, knees firmly planted on either side of Harry’s thighs, until he’s sitting atop Harry, mouth still moving in its languid exploration against his. 

There’s a soft sigh against his mouth as they break for a needed breath, and Harry chases Draco’s lips with a displeased grunt.

Draco chuckles lowly and murmurs against his lips. “Eager.”

Harry’s hands slide down the taut line of Draco’s back. “Not denying that.” His hands trace the slope of Draco’s hip and goes further, reaching the firm curve of his arse. They fill Harry’s hands perfectly and he squeezes, feeling the muscles jump and contract underneath his touch.

He runs his thumb over the curve of Draco’s arse a few more times before he lets his hands skim over the toned expanse of Draco’s thighs, pleased with the way Draco’s breathing turns more erratic. Harry tilts his head up, placing kisses on the curve of Draco’s jaw, nibbles on the apple-citrus-scented skin of his throat. Draco bares his neck, welcoming Harry’s unrushed assault on the long line of pale skin, sounding his approval with soft gasps of pleasure. Harry sucks a mark on the juncture of neck and shoulder and, with a firm grip on the back of Draco’s knees, pulls.

Their erections rub as their bodies are pulled flush together. Draco’s body jerks and his low groan sends ripples of want crashing over Harry.

“Fuck.” Draco’s fingers tug on Harry’s hair, and Harry’s moan is muffled by the skin that’s caught between his teeth. Harry licks on as much skin as he can reach— enjoying the citrusy taste on his tongue, relishing the feeling of Draco’s pulse jumping underneath his mouth as he sucks, greedy for more of the delectable noises that Draco’s making as Harry brands the elegant slope of his neck with his mouth. 

Draco pulls harshly on Harry’s hair with a strangled noise, and Harry’s forced to detach himself from his place on Draco’s neck with a wince. “I think we had a conversation about hair tugging not so long ago,” he grouses.

Draco’s face is flushed, and there’s a reddening patch of skin from where Harry’s mouth has just been. He smirks, mouth pink and parted, eyes heavy-lidded, and Harry’s cock twitches in his pants. “Payback,” Draco drawls.

“Not cute.”

Draco quirks an eyebrow. “Who says I’m trying to be cute?” He brings a finger to Harry’s mouth, and flicks the lower lip. Draco’s pupils are blown wide as he shifts atop Harry, and with a deliberate roll of his hips, he rubs their clothed erections together. 

Harry’s eyes flutter close as hips give answering thrust, the welcome friction making him groan and dig his fingers into Draco’s thighs.

He feels warm, moist breath against the corner of his mouth as Draco grinds against him again and again. 

Harry turns his head, their lips brush, _warm-velvety-wet._ They start a steady rhythm of undulating hips, and Harry’s cock throbs as it rubs against the fabric of his pants and the outline of Draco’s prick. 

Harry’s breath hitches. He squirms in his place underneath Draco trying to push nearer. Wanting more friction. He draws Draco close until their chests and mouths and stomachs are flush against each other, making the air around them a current of heat and a ripple of static. “Gods— Draco— I want— I can’t—”

“I know,” comes the raspy response against his mouth. 

Their breaths turn messy as they move against each other, breathing each other’s air, groins pressing _firmer-faster-more,_ turning more desperate with each thrust, but they’re no closer to relief than they were minutes ago.

There’s a snarl of frustration above him and a growled _fuck,_ and Harry’s eyes fly open in surprise as he’s pushed down on the bed and Draco’s mouth crashes against his. 

There’s no gentle caress of mouths or skin as Draco moves on top of him. Draco’s mouth is a roaring fire against his and his hands are precise and sharp as they ruck Harry’s shirt up. The nails of his thumbs drag against Harry’s heated skin, and Harry shudders almost violently. Draco breaks away from the kiss, panting, just to divest Harry of his shirt, and Harry’s glasses are knocked off as his shirt goes sailing off the bed. Strands of blond hair frame Draco’s face as he looks down, and there’s a fierce look on his face as he takes in Harry’s bare chest.

Harry knows what Draco’s seeing and his heart thunders inside his chest. For a moment he has this ridiculous urge to cover himself, uncertain of how the scars on his body will be received. His fingers clench on Draco’s covers.

He watches Draco’s eyes as they trail down his torso, follows the course of Draco’s gaze as he maps Harry’s body—the faded locket-shaped scar on the center of his chest, the jagged line running across his left flank and the discolored marks on his belly from his time with the Aurors… the lightning bolt cutting across his left pectoral, sitting on top of his heart. He sees the way grey eyes grow wide before they darken almost imperceptibly. He sees the way Draco’s tongue darts out to wet his mouth and the way he catches his bottom lip with his teeth.

Pale hands hover before settling on his chest. “Is that where…?”

Harry draws a shaky breath. “Yeah.” 

Draco’s eyes are burning as they flick back up to Harry’s face. He doesn’t know what expression is on his face at that moment, but Draco’s gaze softens and Harry releases the breath he doesn’t even know he’s holding. More silky strands fall over Draco’s shoulder as he dips his head and starts pressing open-mouthed kisses over Harry’s chest. His collarbones. The ridges of his ribs. The planes of his stomach. The dark trail of hair disappearing into his pants. The straining outline of his cock against his jeans.

Harry’s head falls back on the bed, and he’s reduced to a panting mess.

Draco cups him through his jeans and gives a firm squeeze. 

Harry rocks into the touch, brows furrowed, as Draco palms his erection. “ _Draco._ ”

“I want to see all of you.”

Harry groans. “Yes.”

He reins in a whimper at the loss of Draco’s touch. He raises himself on his elbows, breath coming in small bursts and chest tight. Deft fingers unbutton his jeans and pull his zip down. He lifts his hips off the bed as Draco tugs, pulling off his jeans, shortly followed by his pants. Harry shivers as his cock bobs free and is hit with cool air.

Harry gulps. He feels the heavy weight of Draco’s stare, making all his blood pool south.

“Can I—?” Draco’s voice sounds low and strained, and Harry reaches out. The tips of his fingers skate over Draco’s cheek, and every nerve-ending in his body ignites when Draco slides his hand over Harry’s and presses a chaste kiss on the center of his palm. 

“Yes,” Harry pleads, “Touch me.”

A sharp cry leaves his kiss-bruised mouth as Draco’s fingers brush teasingly against his aching cock. The feathery-light touch is not nearly enough, and Harry thrusts up, wordlessly begging for more.

“Always so impatient,” Draco mutters. 

“W-wanker.”

Draco quirks an eyebrow. “Quite.”

Harry has the intense urge to shut him up again with something other than his mouth. His cock twitches against Draco’s lithe fingers. He thinks he should feel ridiculous, spread wantonly underneath Draco while he’s fully clothed. His cock’s jutting up, hard and red and begging to be touched properly. Yet, he’s never felt so desired as he watches Draco’s eyes burn, focused on the way Harry’s cock slides between the circle of his fingers as he pulls back the heated foreskin. Harry shoves his hips up to get his point across.

When Draco’s hand finally wraps firmly around Harry, he groans in relief at the feeling of warm flesh against his own. His grip is sure and steady, and calloused fingers move and stroke with a certainty that Harry’s always been entranced with. He thumbs at Harry’s slit, just like Harry’s always imagined him doing. The digit swirls and presses lightly and swirls over the head again, keeps repeating the motion, sending sparks of electric heat to Harry’s groin, spreading beads of pearly fluid as Harry’s cock leaks with pre-cum.

“You like that?”

“Gods, yes. That’s—” 

Draco leans in, laps at a nipple as he continues to circle Harry’s reddened glans with his thumb, making Harry cry out and arch into his touch. His mouth. Draco.

“Fuck, come here.” Harry pulls Draco into a searing kiss. Draco sucks on his bottom lip as his hand slowly goes down Harry’s cock, pulling the foreskin back, knuckles tickling the coarse hair at the base of his prick. Draco tugs and brings his hand down again in the same, unhurried motion. Harry feels like he’s melting. He shoves his hands underneath Draco’s shirt, bare, hot skin grounding him. He slides his mouth over the salty-skin of his jaw. “Why aren’t you naked yet?”

Draco sounds amused, even as his hand squeezes the base of Harry’s cock and a finger teases at his frenulum. “Oh, so I’m expected to do all the work, am I?”

“Well, how am I supposed to— Merlin, that’s— supposed to— fuck— help if you keep doing that— oh, _Gods,_ keep doing that.”

Harry’s legs quiver and he feels Draco grin against his cheek. A wet, hot tongue darts out to tease at the lobe of his ear. “If you say so.” Draco’s wrist and fingers do _something_ and Harry lurches, hands scrambling on Draco’s back with a sob. “Although you’ll never get me out of my clothes at this rate.”

Spurred by the prospect of having Draco’s heated skin against his, Harry snaps out of his daze. Harry’s fingers are shaking as they try to unbutton Draco’s shirt, but his sweat-slippery hold on the blasted things make his movements clumsy. 

Harry growls. “Fuck— Just—” He pushes Draco off just enough to get a better handle on his shirt and yanks at the fabric. The dark pink shirt slides off Draco’s shoulders and with a bit of tugging, Harry finally manages to remove it completely and fling it over the side of the bed. Harry thinks he may have popped off some buttons in the process of tearing the thing open, but, really, Harry doesn’t care. Not when he finally has Draco shirtless. 

“I liked that shirt,” Draco says, sounding winded.

This close, Harry still has a clear view of Draco’s chest. There’s a thin strip of skin that’s lighter than the rest, and it ribbons down from the right side of Draco’s chest to just above his belly button. Harry knew it’d be there, learned its existence from Draco’s drunken tirades months ago, but it’s still the first time he’s seen it, and the boiling guilt mixes with the molten desire in his veins, and Harry suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts, Draco grasps his chin and tilts it up, forcing Harry’s gaze away from the _Sectumsempra_ scars and into clear, grey eyes instead. “Don’t,” is all that Draco says before he’s kissing Harry again. Slow and sensual, licking into every crevice of Harry’s mouth, making him light-headed and dizzy and feeling like he may just spontaneously combust.

“But—” Harry draws back, but Draco keeps his mouth firmly attached to Harry’s skin as it burns a path down his jaw, his neck, tongue dipping into his collarbone. “—we should talk—”

Draco bites Harry’s shoulder, making him yelp. “We’ve already talked about it. If you want to talk about it _again,_ now’s not the moment.” He leads Harry’s hand from his chest, down his stomach, until it’s cupping Draco’s hardness through his trousers. “Not like this.” 

Harry’s palm rubs against Draco’s cock, and Draco inhales sharply. Looking into Draco’s eyes, the guilt-ridden tightness in Harry’s chest unravels and longing seizes at the empty spaces it’s left so completely, that all Harry can do is nod helplessly. “Not like this.”

Draco smiles softly before his mouth resumes its languid sweep down Harry’s body, and he presses his hard cock against Harry’s hand. “Don’t you have some work to do?”

It’s a hard job removing Draco’s trousers and pants, especially when Harry’s fingers are shaking from the way the tip of Draco’s tongue is flicking repeatedly over a nipple, teeth gently grazing, mirroring the way his thumb flicks on Harry’s leaking head. By the time he manages to get Draco’s trousers unbuttoned and unzipped, Harry’s a writhing mess underneath him. Harry’s other nipple is subjected to the same ministrations, and it’s a wonder how Harry’s _finally_ able to get all of Draco’s clothes off him when he’s slowly being driven mad.

“Salazar, look at you,” Draco breathes.

Draco’s looking up at him from his spot on Harry’s abdomen, his face is a bit blurry but Harry can still make out the spots of pink dusting over his face, and the blooming red marks on the side of his neck. His hair is a blob of white-blond on his head, probably dishevelled from where Harry’s fingers have been running through it earlier. 

Harry thinks he looks just as, if not more, wrecked. At least, he feels like he is. Broken apart by the thoroughness of Draco’s mouth and hands and fingers.

“I want to see you.”

Draco sounds puzzled. “You already have me naked.”

“No, I mean—” Harry doesn’t know what sort of sound leaves his mouth, but it echoes around them, bouncing off the walls as Draco does that _thing_ with his wrist and fingers again. “— _Gods,_ yes— I need you closer. I want to _see_ you.”

Draco’s hand pauses. “Oh. Right. Glasses.”

Obligingly, Draco comes closer, settling himself in between Harry’s legs, one hand resting beside Harry’s head to support his weight. As Draco’s face becomes clearer, his fingers slide down Harry’s prick and fondles his balls. The gentle roll of his fingers leave pin-pricks of electricity in its wake. 

“Better?” Draco asks.

Harry’s free hand brushes Draco’s hair back, allowing him an unhindered view of pale lashes and pale eyebrows, bright grey eyes piercing through his own, mirroring Harry’s need—the crackling currents of yearning prickling under his skin, sizzling in his stomach, building in his groin. He sees Draco’s expression, and he knows Draco wants Harry as much as Harry wants him. Harry sighs. “Loads better.”

Draco’s lips twitch as his hand starts to move in a steady rhythm. “Sap.”

“Oh, shove off.” Harry smiles back. Draco’s cock is hard and heavy against his hip, and his leg wraps around Draco’s waist, foot slipping over the curve of his arse, and heel digging into the sweaty, soft skin of his arse. Harry uses his foot as leverage to bring them closer, and Draco groans, lowers his head to lick into Harry’s mouth.

Their tongues roll together in a leisurely tangle of _messy-wet-heat,_ and Harry loses himself in the way Draco’s fingers pull and squeeze and tug. Draco starts to rock against him, and Harry feels a warm patch of wetness that’s dribbling on his hip. Harry belatedly realizes he hasn’t got a good look at Draco’s cock yet, and Christ does he want to—he wants to look and stare and imprint Draco’s body in his mind—but the desire to touch and be touched is overpowering now, and Harry knows he has time to get to know Draco’s body later. 

With the way Draco’s touching him, caressing, Harry knows he has time. A lot of time. Days. Months. Years. 

Draco grinds against him, pressing close and rutting against his hip, leaving no space for Harry to worm his own hand between them and touch. And Merlin and Morgana both, he wants to feel Draco against him. In him. On him. Whichever way he can. “Draco,” Harry breathes out. “I want to feel you.”

Draco moans and it sends hot rivulets of desire spiralling down Harry’s stomach and straight to his groin. “Here, let me—” He adjusts his position and takes both of them in hand, and the feeling of warm hand and hot cock moving and rubbing together has Harry making all sorts of sounds he’d probably normally be embarrassed about.

From the sounds of _yes_ and _fuck_ and _Harry_ that’s being coaxed out of Draco’s throat with each stroke of hand and cock, quickening, rapidly growing more urgent by the second, Harry knows he’s not the only one who’s coming dangerously close.

Harry squeezes Draco’s shoulder, puffs of air escaping his parted lips as he tries to steady himself. Wanting to see Draco fall apart before he does. He tips his head up, silently asking for another kiss, and Draco’s mouth moves against his. It’s a simple brush of lips, all that they can manage in between short gasps of breath, but it’s enough to make Harry’s toes curl and make Draco whimper above him.

Fingers rake through white-blond strands and Harry takes pleasure in the way that Draco’s becoming a blubbering mess against him. His rhythm is getting sloppy, and his thrusts are becoming frantic.

Harry wraps his other leg around Draco’s waist, bucking up into the touch, breath ragged with pleas of _faster_ and _more_ and _Draco_ , and it only takes a few more strokes and Harry’s teeth nibbling on a spot on Draco’s shoulder before Draco stiffens against him and shudders with relief.

He comes with a low groan, coating Harry’s stomach and his cock, making the slippery slide of his hand feel almost electric. His hand speeds up, tugging and twisting as Harry writhes underneath him, meeting every slide of Draco’s hand, the friction of their cocks rubbing against each other agonizing and wonderful and mind-blowing and _not enough_.

“Draco—” His mouth is doing things to the slope of Harry’s neck and Harry’s skin burns where Draco’s finger trails down from his stomach to his hips to his thighs until it’s circling slowly, prodding at Harry’s entrance in question. “Fuck, please—” It slips slowly, slick from Draco’s come, _so_ deliciously slowly, inside.

Harry cries out. 

Light explodes from behind his closed lids like the orb underneath the moonlight glowing bright. He trembles from the force of his orgasm, fingers clenching on Draco’s arms, as stripes of pearly white lace with Draco’s own cum on his stomach. Draco’s finger keeps moving inside him, brushing against his prostate over and over as Draco milks his cock for every last drop, and Harry just about sobs as wave after wave of pleasure seizes control of every fiber of his body.

When Draco finally releases him, Harry is breathless and boneless and brilliantly blissed out.

He mumbles gratefully when he feels Draco’s magic wrap around his skin. The gentle cleaning spell sweeps over him and leaves a lingering touch. “So what happened to cleaning up properly?” Harry asks when he finally manages to catch his breath.

“Later. Maybe,” Draco stretches beside him, “This will do for now.”

Arms wrap around his waist, and Harry pulls Draco flush against his back, snuggling into the welcome embrace. They stay curled against each other for Merlin knows how long, neither one willing to move. Harry’s not complaining—he’s quite comfortable like this.

“Did you fall asleep on me?” Draco’s mouth moves against the nape of his neck.

Harry blinks. “Why, did you want another go?”

Draco snorts against Harry’s neck. “I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.” Draco’s fingers lace around Harry’s, and Harry wastes no time in fiddling with them, finally able to examine the sharp edges and slopes up close.

“Me neither,” Harry pauses, feeling the day’s exhaustion slowly creep up on him, making his eyes feel heavy. “I really hope you didn’t plan on kicking me out because I don’t think my legs want to cooperate.”

A warm toe traces the sole of Harry’s foot before it’s given a light kick. “I would be deeply offended if you even tried to sneak off before I wake up.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Harry mutters, finally allowing his eyes to fall shut. “Now shut up and let me sleep. ’m tired.”

“ _You’re_ tired? I was the one who did all the work.”

“You can be a lazy sod tomorrow morning. Shush.”

Harry feels Draco nuzzle against his neck and even with sleep slowly eating at his consciousness, Harry still feels ridiculously pleased at the attention. “I’ll hold you to that,” Draco murmurs.

The last thing that Harry’s aware of is the gentle press of Draco’s lips against his shoulder before he lets himself get whisked away to dreams of pink and blue and purple and bright, glowing moons. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

“This is entirely unfair.”

“I feel like I’ve just been robbed.”

“Remind me to bet after Minerva next time.”

“We’re right _here._ ” Harry thinks he doesn’t even sound annoyed anymore. He can’t even bring himself to try—not when there’s a soothing hand easing up his thigh and giving it a calming squeeze.

If he’s being honest, Harry’s in a ridiculously good mood that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon, regardless of any other bets he and his impulse control might be involved in.

Having been true to his word, Harry’s made good use of most of their morning in Draco’s room, and he’s now so well acquainted with Draco’s body that he thinks he can navigate it with eyes closed. Of course, such a meticulous task has made him and Draco miss breakfast, and Draco, who has a brewing Wolfsbane in his workroom, refused to leave to make up for lost time and worked well over lunch. 

By the time Draco was finished, Harry had been so worked up from watching and helping him send ingredients flying all over the room and slicing and flicking and stirring that… well, they discovered that the tables in Draco’s workroom had their uses for things other than ingredient prep.

With such a conspicuous absence on both their parts for most of the day, as soon as they entered the Great Hall for dinner together, they were greeted with knowing stares from almost every eye on the staff table. Harry thinks it shouldn’t have come as a shock, not when they were apparently the subject of a number of his colleagues’ long-standing betting pools, the bastards, but he still can’t help but feel flustered every time one of the more senior members of the staff looks their way.

Draco, on the other hand, the tit, doesn’t even look remotely concerned. Not even when Neville blatantly stares at the angry-looking lovebites on his neck. 

“How is it that you always win, Headmistress?” Lavender sounds petulant, but she’s looking at Minerva with interest, as if she’s about to divulge the secrets of the universe.

Harry opens his mouth, seeing the amused quirk of Minerva’s mouth, but Draco chooses that moment to lean in and whisper in his ear, and whatever Minerva’s reply is now the least of Harry’s concern. “Are you done? Let’s get the Moon Kit and get out of here before you spontaneously combust.”

Harry grins. “Moon Kit? Really? Finally worn you out, have I?”

Draco shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips as he moves to stand. “You did a good job of it this morning. Afternoon. Whichever. If you want me to keep calling it that, you should probably keep at it.”

They leave the hall as more Galleons change hands and really, Harry thinks as they make their way back to Draco’s work room to retrieve the Moon Kit, he has no problem doing that at all.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, all Harry Potter canon characters belong to JKR. Thank you for reading!
> 
> * * *
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